Teach Me Dirty

I was following him into the rain before I knew it. Crazy, impulsive, ridiculous.

I reached him by his car, and he didn’t see me at first, bent into the backseat as he loaded it up. His hair was already soaked, messy curls dripping with rain as he noticed my presence, and my hair was drenched too, it clung to my face, my blazer doing little to protect me from the torrent, my bare legs feeling the chill.

“Helen?” he asked. “Don’t you have a coat?”

I shook my head, holding out my hands to shush him before I lost my nerve. “I lied,” I said. “I lied about food poisoning, I lied about not talking, I lied about everything.”

“Ok,” he said.

“I want to talk.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow?”

“Now.” My words sounded crazy. “Please. If you can. I mean, if you have some time. I know school is out, I just…”

He opened the passenger door, and my stomach turned over. “I have time,” he said.

***

Helen

Mr Roberts’ old Jag smelled of pine air freshener and oil paint, its interior artistically chaotic. Old rock blared from the stereo before he silenced it, ejecting a rattling old cassette tape. He cleared a box of paintbrushes, some notebooks and a stained wooden palette to make room for my legs in the footwell, turning in his seat to dump the collection in the back.

“Sorry, Helen. I usually travel solo.”

The thought warmed my heart. Maybe there was no Mrs Roberts. No string of artistic supermodels clambering into his car every evening. I clipped myself into the seatbelt as the engine rumbled into life, and he steered us out of the school grounds and onto the road.

I was aware of him. So aware of his body at my side, his hand gripping the stick as he worked up through the gears. I didn’t ask where we were going, and I didn’t care. Somewhere. Anywhere. I’d have ridden alongside him forever and not complained a peep. He turned onto the bypass, and put his foot down on the open straight, sending us parallel to the river Arlbrook for a while before nipping into a turning. The ground was gravelly, and the car bumbled along before he idled it, its nose to the fence with the drop of the bank and the swollen river beyond. A good spot.

“I like it here,” he said. “It’s good for thinking.”

My impulsive bravery seemed to have vanished. I stared ahead, through the windscreen, watching the water ripple as it twisted its way downstream, but Mr Roberts wasn’t watching the river, he was watching me. Seeing into me. Seeing through me.

“There’s a picnic bench over there.” I followed the gesture of his hand and saw a rickety looking table through the rain. “But it isn’t really the day for it.”

I tried to think of something to say, and what came out was the lamest excuse for a question in the whole entire universe.

“Do you come here often?”

His lip curved into a smirk for just a second. “Yes, I do come here often. I like the water.”

“Me, too. I mean, I like water, not this water. I mean, I do like this water, but I’ve never been here before, so.” I made myself take a breath, knowing my cheeks were burning. “That’s why I’m going to Aberystwyth, or I hope I am.” I chanced meeting his eyes, and his gaze was intense and curious. “For the water. For the sea. And the art, of course.”

“You like the water, too. Yes, that figures.”

“I like boats,” I said. “My uncle has one, moored down at Brixham. He lets us go on it sometimes, I love it. My grandad used to fish off the beach at Saundersfoot. He used to catch allsorts, would be out there all day. I guess it’s in my blood. Not my parents so much, they don’t like boats. Not like me. It’s not boats, it’s the water, being on the water.” I put my palms to my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just. I don’t know.”

“Relax,” he said. “Listen to the rain on the roof, feel the river.” He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose, his gestures flamboyant. “Breathe it in. Can you feel it?”

I felt myself smiling. “Yeah, I can feel it. Water is life.”

“Yes, and emotion and soul, and the unconscious, the dark deep, the primordial soup of inspiration.” He wound down his window, and I realised just how old the car must be. Vintage. Soulful. It suited him. I’m sure my jaw dropped as he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his blazer pocket. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head and he lit up, blowing a wispy curl of smoke out into the rain. I stared at the way it billowed from his lips, the way his fingers gripped the cigarette like he’d done it a million times, not like the awkward clusters of cool kids struggling to look experienced with their ten-packs of Malboro Lights.